


Golden, Broken, and Lost

by clutzycricket



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Ladies of the Red Keep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:01:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5358560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clutzycricket/pseuds/clutzycricket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, when the dragons slept in cold stone and the dead were buried as their kin wished...</p><p>... a King had three daughters, all as different as could be.</p><p>...a curse was cast on an already uneasy castle.</p><p>...and the young ladies of the Court watched with secrets in their eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden, Broken, and Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Seanan McGuire's wonderful "Wicked Girls".

Once, when the dragons slept in cold stone and the dead were buried as their kin wished, there was a princess from the kingdom of the sun. She had a near twin brother, as wild as she was kind, and a much elder brother who was heir to the kingdom of the sun. It surprised no one from Dorne when she was announced to wed the silver prince of the northern kingdoms.

She bore two daughters in relatively quick succession- one with her mother’s looks and her great-grandmother’s temper, the eldest of the court said, and a sunny princess with her father’s silver locks and a way of charming all she met.

Shortly after the birth of the younger princess, however, the Silver Prince ran off with a lady of the north, and came home with a third daughter, with grey eyes and an air of grief about her.

Eight and ten years after the first princess’ birth, the court had only seemed to have settled down from that scandal when a new tale had brewed…

~

Rhaegar Targaryen, King of the Seven Kingdoms, looked up from the sudden fall of red skirts on his desk and gave his eldest daughter a pointed look. “I can give you work to do,” he mused, watching as she peered at the letters scattered over his workspace.

“I already had to mediate one fight this evening- Asha Greyjoy and Merry Crane,” she waved a hand lazily. “I need to find Lady Merry a husband, I suspect. Her sharp tongue and Asha’s sharp... everything will lead to grief if we aren’t careful.”

“Lady Asha is the elder,” her father said, in an inquiring tone, though he knew his reasoning for agreeing with her.

“Asha is your hostage, I prefer her company- Merry is darling, but she is also very much a Lady of the Reach,” she looked at the fruit left on his table. “Mother acted on her threats to make sure the kitchens only send you dried fruit?”

“The Reacher Lords are useful allies,” Rhaegar pointed out. “And Jon agreed with her, so yes.”

“Ah, but it would be nice not to deal with them looking down on Mother’s relatives- you do recall that is part of the reason why Daeron had so many issues, conflicts between the Reach and Dorne?” she reflected. “Plus my cousins do scandalize them so.”

“Which is why we need to marry you well,” he said. He pulled a letter from Lord Bracken he wanted to reflect on. “Could you pass me the cloth and willow box, with the embroidered flowers?”

She slid off the table, grabbing the alarmingly full box. “I do think they are meant to be lemon trees, father. Don’t let Dany know that you believe them to be anything else. And Viserys…” she frowned. “Have we received a letter from his minders?”

“They are in Lys right now, so as long as we don’t have an ambitious banking family with a lovely daughter…” he sighed. “We are receiving some reports from lords who fear for the winter.”

“The maesters call for a long one,” Rhaenys agreed. “The Northerners trust Lord Stark, and if Uncle Oberyn’s latest plan with Lord Baelor work…”

Rhaegar gave a fleeting smile, holding up a letter from Lord Tywin. “Would you care to marry Tyrion Lannister?”

“He’s fucked every whore from Sunspear to the Wall,” Rhaenys pointed out, perhaps to watch her father flinch. “Without a little Hill to show for it. Besides, I would not care for Tywin Lannister as a goodfather- I do know what he did to his previous gooddaughter, and he has little love for Mother or I, when it comes to that. Perhaps if Jaime was released from his vows, but I suspect I should poison Jaime and his lively tongue within… a fortnight?” She wrinkled her nose. “Yes, that sounds right. For a man so very in love with the dignity of his family name, I truly wonder at his actions sometimes. A blow to the head in a battle, perhaps.”

“Mmm, you should choose eventually, though,” he said, trying to ignore the slight to his Hand. His Hand was perfectly capable of insulting his heir right back, usually with the same respectful sort of venom. “Willas Tyrell is a good boy.”

“Olenna Tyrell,” she laughed. “And they call Uncle a viper…” she frowned at one report, swiftly grabbing it. “Skagos? And what are men doing on Skagos?”

“People do live there,” Rhaegar said. “I still need that letter, though.” She nodded, going through his study. It was divided neatly, with large wooden storage and a system of letter sorting to help him keep track of the letters he went through. (And also, Rhaenys privately suspected, to put a use to the sheer amount of embroidery made by four princesses and their companions. The bin on harvest complaints from the Riverlands was one of Helena’s works, she thought, and she personally had made the fabric for the letters from her Uncles, a rather charming scale pattern that had made her look harmless while sitting with Father in the small council.) She found the pattern that she could not match to her Father’s usual mess, and pulled it out.

“Rhaenys,” her father warned. She started looking over the letters.

“Truly, you must remember that I am your heir, unless you wish to let Viserys rule, and I think even Randall Tarly will support me over him,” she said. “Therefore, I should be helping you, and knowing what is alarming you so.”

She started the first letter, written by a trader from the Lonely Light discussing mysterious disappearances on the isle, and the ravings of its lord. The next was a Lannisport merchant, another from Lorath by way of Oldtown.

“Euron Greyjoy,” Rhaenys mused, flicking the letter. “Claims to have visited the ruins of Valyria,,” she smiled brightly. “And is instead in Lorath, city of mazemakers, said to have been conquered by merlings. And ships that look suspiciously like those of ironborn make are seen in the Bay of Seals. All of which are terribly far from the Smoking Sea.”

“Mmm,” her father said. “My dear, I do not think Euron Greyjoy went to Valyria at all, do you?”

She bit her lip, staring at the tapestry of a dragon in flight over Dragonstone. “No, but I do wonder what he has gotten into. Sorcery isn’t to be trifled with,” she added. It was a different tone than Maia Rambton would have, more as a matter of fact then as an expression of belief that sorcery was inherently wrong. “Recreating the Sea Snake’s voyages, perhaps?”

“Even Varys has limited ways of gathering intelligence in that direction,” he admitted. “Ib, perhaps, or Samar, but the Thousand Islands and Mossovy are out of all of our ranges.”

She hid a shiver at that, having told tales of those lands to Visenya, her fierce warrior sister, learnt lessons on them and traded ghoulish tales with Wynafred Manderly at night. “Fish folk and demon hunters,” she said, wanting to get out of the cool red room. “This is not going to end well, especially if he does not know what he is doing.”

“From what Lord Harlaw hints, he isn’t likely to care about doing things properly, at the least, or caring about more than how much chaos he can cause,” Rhaegar said.

Rhaenys hid a shiver at that, before fixing a smile on her face. “With that, Papa, I did agree to host a ride through the Kingswood. You will not mind if I borrow Ser Jaime, and Ser Arthur, would you?” she asked. “Ser Whent tends to bring out the barbs in my sister’s tongue.”

“Dragon, scales,” he murmured, ignoring her laughter as she fled the room. “Take Ser Arys as well.”

~

Visenya Targaryen was the best rider in the Seven Kingdoms- she considered it a simple fact, the way that Sansa was the best at embroidery at Court and her elder sister could see into your soul when she was so much as irritated with you.

Which is why she was terribly frustrated at the moment. Her ladies, for the most part, could keep up with her, and were brilliant riders. Rhae’s ladies, on the other hand, were anywhere from half a horse to prone to falling off the saddle at the slightest shy.

Ser Jaime was sticking close to her as she tore through the woods, Dreamfyre leaping over branches with the ease of familiarity.

Eventually, though, the mare needed to rest, and Ser Jaime could speak. He was almost as bad as his brother about that sort of thing.

“You do realize that bandits occasionally make their home in these woods,” Jaime said mildly. leading his horse to the stream. “I can handle them, but the ladies might be upset.”

“And we shall have yet another snippy little argument,” Visenya agreed. “Did you hear Rhae is planning on marrying Merry out?”

Ser Jaime’s eyes went wide. “The little witty one who mimics Lord Tarly? Pity- perhaps she could marry Tyrion, and the resulting wit could kill off a few of the more irritating members of court,” he drawled, and she snorted.

“You do know most of them would take poison before the name Lannister?” Rhaenys drawled back as she came up to them, looking perfectly ladylike on Fiddler, her lovely Sand Steed cross. Obara was behind her, watching curiously from what should be an awkward seat on her own mount, a lovely pale beast, whip coiled at hand.

“And why is that?” Ser Jaime asked, something dangerous in his eyes, and Senya remembered the red and gold letter this morning. Ah, did Lord Tywin make an offer for Rhae to marry one of his relatives?

“Your father ensured that in how he treats Tyrion,” she said, that devastating evenness to her tone that would make her a reckoning as Queen only an echo, “Every lady fears that marrying him means being treated with that level of scorn almost as much as it would involve walking into their bedchambers and stumbling into an orgy. Senya, have a bit of pity on those less capable- Oakheart is staring at the trees as if he expects them to attack. Bandits and rogues do occasionally haunt this wood, as Ser Jaime can tell you.”

“Well, they would have to catch me,” Visenya said, stung. Her older sister was watching with a vaguely disapproving manner, arms crossed.

“You sound like my sister Elia,” Obara laughed, “Ellaria and Aunt Elia must share in their despair of a night.”

“Mother will disapprove,” Rhaenys told their eldest cousin, and Senya reminded herself that next to Alys Karstark or Lyanna, her sister was one of the few who could keep up with her while ahorse.“Because of her own ill experiences in these woods, and Lady Smallwood will fret from her sister’s ills.”  Senya blushed at the reminder of what had happened to Jeyne Swann. Lady Smallwood was very kind, and even Arya found it hard to be graceless around the woman.

“And we do have to be home before night, sister dear, and it will be very difficult to do so if we need to chase down lost ladies.”

Senya sighed. “Then I should be allowed to ride with whom I like,” she muttered.

“Trust me I would enjoy that as well, but it is a dance like any other,” Rhaenys said, something sympathetic in her eyes. “Obara and I will let the others know that we will be turning back soon enough, and I will see if we can arrange for a smaller hunting party another time, just you and Helaena deciding who you want. I can arrange for something in the Keep at the same time, perhaps with Grandmother, so no one feels terribly left out.”

“Except whoever is left holding the silk instead of a sword,” Ser Jaime japed, and Rhaenys rolled her dark eyes at that.

Obara barked a laugh. “Race you to your followers, cousin.”

Rhaenys sighed. “If only they listened like loyal followers, so much strife could be averted… but I think Fiddler and I shall win.”

With that they were off, leaving Visenya only a few more moments of relative peace.

She took off with Dreamfyre into the brush.

The man was dressed finely in the styles of the north, all in silver and black, and a greatsword across his back. Dreamfyre nearly shied, only long familiarity keeping the princess ahorse.

“Who are you?” she challenged.

“Someone who is looking for something,” he said, a strange accent to his voice. It wasn’t the tones of Uncle Oberyn, lilting from his ability to occasionally forget what language he should be speaking- though perhaps Alynne Connington was correct in thinking that Uncle only did that to annoy Father or Lord Mace. It was also not like Alys Karstark, from the far North, or the Orphans of the Greenblood, who spoke Rhoynish though they should not.

“Looking for what?” Visenya asked, hand on the recurve bow she used while hunting. Ser Jaime would not be too far behind.

He smiled, and vanished.

Ser Jaime appeared, cursing roundly.

~

Visenya had chosen to tell Helaena first, because facing Rhaenys’ disapproving expression was too much to handle right now. Not that her solemn youngest sister was much better. It was as if Hela wanted to live down her parents shame by being as honorable as possible, the way Rhaenys tried to be the dutiful daughter and supportive and instructive sister to make up for Mother’s illnesses and Father’s… fatherness.

Though Hela wore her honor better than Rhae wore serenity, in Senya’s opinion.

“He vanished?” Hela asked, unruly dark braid half-unravelled. “Truly vanished?” Senya had taken an older sister’s authority and banished the girl’s ladies for an hour, while her own waited in the other set of apartments meant for her. (And she had quietly asked Roslin to ensure that Joy did not take to sneaking about again.)

“Truly,” Visenya said, untangling the braids. “I wish I knew how he did it- imagine how many horrible banquets could be avoided if I could do the same!”

“Lady Rambton would disapprove Most Strongly,” Helaena said, a spark of sarcasm in her tone as she mimicked the Queen’s Senior Lady, who disapproved of everything not in the Seven Pointed Star. (Well, perhaps not that bad, but she was stricter than your average septa.)

“Ah, well, she’d need to catch me,” Senya laughed. “But how shall I tell our sweet sister?”

“Not to mention Ser Gerold,” Helaena murmured. “He will wrap you in clinging wool.”

“I shall need to, tomorrow,” Senya said, not knowing what the next day would bring.

~

Lady Sansa Stark was helping Princess Rhaenys with her latest kitten, a kitchen stray who had a badly bruised leg and had been in the care of the Princess, Sansa, and Lady Margaery while the splint was in place.

“How on earth did he manage to tangle himself this thoroughly in my ribbons?” Margaery laughed, nimbly ducking another swipe of claws.

“Never underestimate the little ones,” the princess said, managing to unloop a long yellow thread. “This one is deeply curious, too. I hope you were not too terribly attached to whatever project you were working on.”

“It was to be a tunic for my brother Willas- he is coming to visit, you know,” she said with a wicked grin.

“Margaery,” Rhaenys said with a laugh, trying to look stern. “My father is very… he is very uncertain on the subject of my marriage.”

Margaery and Sansa looked at each other, not quite sure what to say. The princess of Dragonstone rolled her eyes. “Yes, I am aware of his hypocrisy on the subject, ladies. I suspect that is part of his reluctance to see me wed. I cannot wed Dorne, because every kingdom will be unhappy, Edmure is the only Tully heir and Senya is too fond of him for me to ruin that, the Vale is too fragile, I refuse to deal with the Westerlands mess, so my main suitors are…” She frowned.

“Renly Baratheon, Humphrey Hightower, Robb Stark, and Willas,” Margaery said, making a cry of glee as she untangled the last of her thread. The kitten managed to right himself with injured dignity and wander off. “My brother is clearly the best of the lot.”

Sansa blinked her wide blue eyes. “Margaery?” she gave her friend an innocent, slightly hurt look, the youngest of the princess’ ladies making her natural innocence a playful weapon.

“Oh,” Margaery looked crestfallen. “I meant… your brother is so much younger then the princess, and your next brother is younger than Arya, even. Your family isn’t as deeply entrenched as the Tyrells or Lannisters, or even the Martells, and taking away chances for that seems cruel.”

Sansa sighed at that. “Of course, Margaery,” she said, as if all was forgiven. Rhaenys waited for Margaery to remember why the Starks were so whittled down of late, a macabre sort of humor upon her.

A chill wind wove through the room, and Margaery shivered. “It is terribly cold, can have the maids light a fire?” she asked. “Summer is ending, and autumn is bringing cold nights.”

“Alright,” said the princess with a frown. “Which tale shall I tell you tonight, then?” she said, swirling in her red and bronze dress, dark curls floating about.

It was the last normal moment the the girls would have for many moons.

~

If it had been but one girl, even one of the princesses, the rumors would have been harsh but understandable.

But for every maiden of the Maidenvault to awaken looking pale and wan, with bruises under their eyes and silence their companion, the courtiers became concerned.

Was it an illness? They whispered. But none recognized the symptoms.

“Have you decided to host midnight revels without telling me?” Ser Jaime asked Visenya one day, after catching her dozing lightly in the gardens, Alys Karstark tangled with her.

Visenya gave a tired smile. “Are you and the guards sleeping during your watch, Ser, that you would not know?”

Jaime frowned. He knew that edged smile- it was one Rhaella had given whenever asked about her late husband. “Ah, I see your point.” He would mention it to someone else- normally, he thought with frustration, he would merely pass it off to the Crown Princess, but as she appeared to be afflicted…

He smiled, a sight that sent a few of the more skittish squires paling, and went to the rookery. He had a raven to send, if the Queen had not already.

~

It was the servants who noticed the problem first, because they traversed corridors of the Red Keep that not many lords and ladies would willingly walk.

So perhaps, Lady Smallwood thought, rubbing her stinging eyes, it was more accurate to say that the servants were the ones who were the ones who were first willing to bring the problem to someone’s attention. Who knew what schemes had been cooked up in the lesser-travelled corridors of the Red Keep over the years?

The shadows danced, they said, and Lady Cersei snorted and said they were drunken fools who should be whipped into better sense.

Then the rumors of sickness came, bruises on servingfolk, pinches and invisible hands. Some were tripped, others heard voices. Some claimed to see ghosts, though it had some thought it was as likely a reaction to whatever was happening as anything else. Or at least that was how it seemed to Ravella Smallwood, who had once merely been the too-clever twin sister of the tragic Jeyne Swann that glorious songs of the defeat of the Kingswood Brotherhood always forgot. Maia was fretting at the sept, but while she was a dragon and a harpy when it came to the Queen’s health and keeping the King from doing anything foolish, magic always did make the Crownlanders twitchy, and both her families were deeply pious.

Then the flowers began to grow, vines as strong as ironwood and pale as weirwood, with long, delicate black flowers fading to a deep blue. They choked the paths and overgrew the walls, and Lady Smallwood watched as her charges gathered to oversee the gardeners attempt to remove them.

“I don’t think wildfire could burn them,” Liane Vance said, not quietly enough. The other girls turned to look at in her in horror. She seemed to realize what she said and turned green, looking around in fright.

They gathered around each other like a flock of sickly magpies, protecting the Crown Princess, who looked as if someone had placed a mantle of steel over her shoulders and she was still fumbling for balance. Rhaenys shook her head, giving a rueful look at Liane.

“At least they haven’t left the walls of the Keep,” Ravella said, looking over the girls carefully. Perhaps one of them would come to her later, weeping. It did happen, sometimes.

Looking at their stony, resigned faces, she did not hold much hope for it, though the way one of the vines twined around Merry Crane’s hand before she noticed and Sansa Stark helped pull her loose chilled her. It was as if the vine had a living mind of its own, and Lady Meredyth, normally a challenge to deal with, seemed to be swallowing a scream.

~

The demon had managed to get into the rooms again that night, despite the fire burning bright and the shards of dragonglass along the window. The princess had been settled in a chair with a long cloak to be embroidered richly, and, as she had been doing, offered the demon a tale.

“The tale of your death?” he suggested, offhand.

“The tale of my death,” she mocked, archly. Sansa wondered if the princess was brave, to match wits with a man who was not a man, or merely tired of this battle. “I do not think so. Perhaps the tale of the Lady of the Bats, and the river that changed its course in revolt of her foul deeds…”

The demon settled, and crouched by the fire, taking all of the warmth and light for himself.

For her sake, we stay, Sansa thought to herself, watching Allyria embroider clumsy stitches worse than what Arya had done in Winterfell.

Rhaenys drew out the tale, telling of the building of Harrenhal. “Harren the Black was a cruel man, who believed in paying for things in blood. So his castle was to be a monument to his arrogance, and it was paid for in the blood of those who suffered under his boot. Many years they labored to build those dark towers, built bigger than any man could need, bigger, some whispered, then any god could need. And it was that arrogance that killed him, for the rivers wash away those who try to tame them.

In this case it was the dragons of House Targaryen, howling for surrender. The men heard the battlecry of a dragon and shivered, but Harren the Black thought building high and wide would keep him safe.” The princess’ eyes glittered, something feral and something very like her Uncle Oberyn in her smile as she continued, tossing her curls. “But, you see, the stone did not hold up very well to dragonfire, and many of the ruined portions of Harrenhal were so melted even if someone was as wealthy as Tywin they could not properly fix it.”

“What does this have to do with a Lady of the Bats?” the sorcerer growled. Sansa wished fiercely for Lady, safely ensconced with the other girls near the Queen’s rooms as an alarm.

Rhaenys smiled and stood, a wan smile on her face. “Patience, friend. I must set the scene, you see, for the castle is a large part of this tale, you see… It passed through many houses, the Targaryens gifting it at need, and gaining a name for being cursed…”

By the time the story was not quite ended, it was almost dawn, and the sorcerer was growling. Rhaenys had kept the sorcerer focused on her voice and her tale, spinning a net from history and a spear with her words, and now it was too late for more than an empty threat or two.

“My... master reminds you of his offer,” he spat.

“And I remind you of my answer,” Rhaenys said, and Sansa pretended she didn’t see the the princess sway slightly.

“We can manage an hour or two of sleep, if we hurry,” Sansa offered.

The girls slept curled together in the great bed, heads just barely peaking out from the heavy brocade and silks.

~

It was commonly accepted that the King and the Red Viper loathed each other, and only the Queen’s good nature kept them from doing anything rash. There were reasons for this- they had disliked each other a bit from the beginning, Oberyn finding Rhaegar too serious and repressed, and had thought the Lyanna Stark incident was an exacerbation of his nature, rather than an exception.

After Lyanna Stark and Helaena’s birth, of course, it had been a near-miracle for the goodbrothers to exchange a civil word.

But after the introductory insults, Oberyn and Rhaegar disappeared into the dimmer recesses of the Holdfast, and Jon Connington and Arthur Dayne were sent to visit the Queen and Princess Daenarys on Dragonstone for a bare two days.

Neither man looked happy, especially when studying the contents of the chest brought back from Dragonstone.

The king had locked himself in his study, causing the Red Viper to prowl the castle like an angry cat, not tamed by his lover’s charms or his sister’s pleas.

And finally, the King declared an audience before all, in the throne room.

The room was long and lit to be faintly imposing at the best of times, the courtiers were willing to admit in the privacy of their own minds. But now it seemed longer and thinner, the shadows deeper, the dragon skulls taking a faintly hungry cast, something almost intelligent lurking within them.

“As you all have noticed, there have been some… peculiarities in this palace as of late,” Rhaegar said, voice solemn and not brooking jests. “I am truly sorry to tell you that it appears that there is a sorcerer who wishes us ill, and has visited a demon upon the Red Keep and its inhabitants.”

Even the quiet melancholy of the King could not stop the whispers at this, growing like a grassfire amid silks, velvets, and gems.

“I have my suspicions as to who this sorcerer is, but without the sorcerer, we will find ourselves very deeply in danger as the time passes. And as we do not know where the demon lairs…” his expression was dangerous as the dragon skulls.

No one made a move to flee.

“So I ask of you, if any know of the sorcerer or how he summoned this creature, come to me. If you break this curse, you may have my daughter’s hand in marriage,” he finished, almost absently.

If the announcement of a sorcerer was a grassfire, this was the Field of Fire come again.

~

Even if you were the Queen, you did not question the King. Targaryen history was littered with examples of that maxim. Rhaenys could, quietly, place questions in her father’s path, because she was her father’s heir and she asked them carefully. Elia forced herself to stay quiet and serene until they, by some unspoken mutual agreement, came to Rhaegar’s study.

Then she let her temper have full reign.

Elia glared at her husband, unwilling to believe what she had just heard. But it was true, and he had done so, so carelessly, that same stupid carelessness that had caused a war over another girl. “How could you be such a fool,” she hissed. “Promising such a thing! Did you even think to warn the girls before you made your announcement? A betrothal is one thing- done carefully, with political purposes. But any hedge knight might try their hand, or, if you think about it, perhaps the sorcerer or someone who could have hired him?”

“I had no choice, Elia!” Rhaegar whirled on her, a thundercloud of silver and black. “I cannot fix this, not entirely. And this one thing is what I can do for them, and it will turn out well, trust me in this. Is it such a difficult thing?”

“You lost any right to my trust a long time ago,” Elia pointed out, stepping up to her husband. “Be straightforward with me, stop twisting what you say into words that would make a maester beg for mercy! What has driven you to this? Have you run mad?”

“Sorcery, Elia,” Rhaegar said, a strange fey look in his eye, and she recalls with terrible clarity how Ser Oswell and Arthur never spoke much on what happened when Lyanna Stark was taken, her own quiet suspicions when she noticed scrolls and books missing with him. She did not ask much about what he did, because Lyanna Stark was a ghost and Elia would spend her years as queen.

Breaking someone’s will was easy- her family had broken the Conqueror with a single letter. But to twist it so?

She would be taking _all_ three girls to visit Sunspear after this.

~

And men came, self-proclaimed sorcerers and lords with their maesters. Sansa guessed the house of the lords, Lianne and Asha guessed at the identities of the rest, some gaiety restored by the silly bets of coppers and ribbons and beads over how they would try to break the spell, which was spreading the thorns, candles and great fires lit at all hours to keep the shadows at bay.

Visenya led the betting, Hela watching as she combed lavender and rosemary in her oldest sister’s hair. The parade of young men had made Rhaenys’ eyes grow tighter and her gowns, both in the Dornish and Crownlander styles, were showing the drop in weight she couldn’t afford to lose. Margaery had chosen the rose colored gown in a Crownlander style for the Crown Princess, with uneven, sharp bell sleeves hiding how loose the tight inner sleeve was, and the shoulders high enough, with heavy enough embroidery, they didn’t show her frail shoulders.

Allyria had brought strawberries and cream, which had been one of Rhae’s weaknesses. She’d eaten three, slowly.

“The Tyrell rose,” Sansa said. “It took your brother a long time to visit.”

“He had an issue to deal with for Father in Oldtown,” Margaery said, sighing. “I wish he had come under better circumstances.”

“Perhaps he found something in the bowels of Oldtown’s libraries,” Elinor Tyrell offered. “They are legendary, after all.

Alynne Connington, who was perhaps too fragile for Court in the best of time, looked at them with tragic eyes. “Why would that work, when nothing else does?”

“Something will,” Wylla Manderly said sharply. She had recently recolored her hair green, the smell of the dye clinging to her hair. “Everything has a loophole.”

“Let’s just hope it isn’t worse than this,” Visenya said gloomily.

~

Willas Tyrell looked at the pale red stone of the Red Keep, which looked as menacing as it must have done in the days of Maegor the Cruel. His horse whickered and shied, gently, too well trained to throw him.

“Steady, girl,” he said, gloved hand on her mane. “We trust Oberyn, don’t we?”

Moonshadow, who had been rather fancifully named by Margaery before she left for Court, calmed at the mention of Oberyn.

“Ah, mention the Prince and you calm. Traitor,” he laughed, quietly. “It’s the apples, isn’t it? He spoils you whenever we all meet.”

The horse, being a horse, did not comment.

Loras rolled his eyes. “Ever the example of grace and dignity,” he said.

Willas rolled his eyes. “And yet I’m still the better horseman,” he said. “What do you think Margaery has gotten herself into this time?”

Loras scowled. “Margaery didn’t get herself into anything.”

His youngest brother was always the most willing to protect Margaery from own overconfidence. Being fair, their sister was not half as ambitious as their father was for her. Her own ambition was a husband who respected her and treated her as an equal. He was merely happy that Viserys Targaryen was kept in the far distances of Essos under what amounted to a guard, and that Rhaegar Targaryen had only thrown out daughters. The Seven only knew what Mace Tyrell would do with half a chance to make his daughter queen.

Well, his heir is riding into a dangerous, cursed fortress with half a hope and some moldering books after being told whoever solved this problem would marry one of the princesses, he thought wryly. That said something about Tyrell ambition.

Of course, he was also doing it because his friend was worried for his nieces and sister. Not to mention Margaery and cousin Elinor.

He looked at the flood of people in King’s Landing. Some were brash and arrogant, boasting of their skills in battle against monsters that even the wildest bestiary did not have, others pinched and fearful, looking with annoyance and worry at the armed men who had, in essence, invaded their city.

All of them looked over their shoulders at the Keep and shuddered, many making the sign of the Seven Pointed Star across their chest.

“We’ll go to the Keep and present ourselves to the King,” Willas said. “Then I’ll ask you to trust me, Loras.”

Loras looked at him doubtfully, but Loras had not yet learned to temper his pride, while Willas had learned that harsh lesson in his first tourney.

His father had been so very proud of him, and with all four of the princesses in attendance, he had pressed him son into entering, in hopes of getting him knighted young and impressing the king. Instead, his horse had shied and fallen, his leg had snagged in the saddle, and every other bad piece of luck that could happen, save for the conduct of Prince Oberyn, who had promptly dismounted, calmed the horse, and fetched the crown groomsmen used to Northern draftshorses, much heavier and meaner in temper. He’d also leant his own maester, a man who Willas deeply suspected had a touch of sorcery in his training- there was a link of Valyrian steel in his chain, after all, shining dully and sticking in his pain-hazed memory.

Since then all dreams of knighthood had been put away, leaving him to deal with his father’s fractious bannerman in clever, tricky ways, relying on his brothers’ loyalty and lack of ambition, as some saw it, to keep Highgarden safely in their hands. Father wasn’t half the fool he pretended to be- Margaery’s appointment to the Crown Princess’ circle of ladies, and his dreams of Loras going into the Kingsguard- which were quite likely, he had to admit, with Garlan’s easy knowledge of their fellow knights and Loras’ willingness to use trickery to win.

He dismounted carefully, the familiar jolt on his knee as he landed an old friend. Oberyn was waiting for him, as well as the younger of Queen Elia’s girls- the wild haired blond, Visenya, dressed in riding leathers and a small dark haired woman at her side.

“Princess Visenya and Lady Alys Karstark,” Oberyn said. “Princess Rhaenys is with her father, holding court. Your timing has always been wretched.”

Willas scowled at the old joke, but clasped his old friend either way. “It is nice to see you, though I regret the circumstances. Princess, Lady. I hope you are well.”

“As well as can be expected,” Lady Alys said, a surprising vein of sarcasm in her voice. Loras snickered in surprise.

Visenya Targaryen stared at him, and he studied her right back. She wore her silver-blonde hair in a rough braid, wide violet eyes suspicious and the bones of her face much like Oberyn’s- sharp to the point of thinness, with little softness to them.There was little of the mischievous, impulsive whirlwind Margaery had painted a verbal portrait of in her letters, and he wondered ruefully how badly this curse had scarred her. She was to marry Edmure Tully in a year’s time, he knew, and by all accounts it had been a well suited couple.

Would Tully be able to help the princess deal with whatever had changed her so?

“You will want to see my sister,” the princess said, finally. “Teora said so,” she added to Oberyn, whose eyebrows winged upward but the older man stayed maddeningly silent. “Or at least I think she did.”

“At least you recognize ambiguity when it goes after you with a war hammer,” Oberyn murmured.

~

Elia watched from one of the secret vantage points of the Keep, Jaime Lannister at the hems of her orange skirts. “I do wonder if my brother has a plan up his sleeve,” she said, tapping her lip with a fond smile.

Jaime looked at his Queen with a look that spoke more volumes than his brother could possibly read. “Do you need to ask? Your brother has a task, and he is being asked to work with His Grace. The only surprise is that we haven’t been treated to more obvious forms of… entertainment.”

Elia looked sidelong at Jaime, something almost like amusement in her tired eyes. “You would not possibly be hinting that the King, my husband, would be so foolish as to indulge in a rivalry while some alarming form of sorcery is invading the castle?”

Jaime grinned lazily. “Your younger daughter is already making a record of the bets and guesses for when it spills over. Of course, the knights of the Kingsguard are above such things.”

“Of course,” Elia said, not quite trusting the stone enough to lean against it.

~

There were two dark haired girls sitting alone in the study. The younger, with a long pale face and a simple, high-collared black-and-grey dress, was Lyanna Stark’s bastard, sitting stiffly behind her sister, watching him with suspicious grey eyes. He remembered Oberyn once grumbling that Lyanna Stark was not a woman worth sparking a war for, and the woman’s fate to die shortly after the rebellion had been her saving grace. Her daughter, however, had a sharp, stubborn dignity to her, and Willas saw a flash of steel hidden in her skirts.

He smiled. “Peace. I’m Willas Tyrell, Margaery’s eldest brother. I do hope she hasn’t told you too many terrible tales- only half of them are true, in that case.”

The Crown Princess gave him a faint smile. “Lady Margaery has been nothing but glowing in her praise of you, Lord Willas,” she said, rising. She was not an especially tall woman, compared to her cousins Obara or Nymeria, but he could see how in happier days she was considered a beauty of the Kingdoms, with her wide violet eyes and soft bowstring mouth.

“And she has spoken nothing but good of you,” he said, sitting down. “I suspect that whatever is going on, you literally cannot speak of it-” and Helaena’s flinch confirmed that sneaking suspicion- “which does limit what could be happening.”

The Crown Princess nodded gracefully, her carefully braided hair seeming to form a dark crown. “I hope you will not do as so many of your predecessors have done, and… inportune my ladies, and those of my sisters’ circles, while you make your attempt. I shall not take it kindly.”

Well, if he wasn’t reminded that the Queen was Oberyn’s near-twin already, that quiet version of Oberyn’s viper smile would clear up any gaps in his memories. “I have a feeling they might have met the sharp side of a few tongues already- I am well acquainted with Lady Merry, and between her sharp wit and my sister’s fierceness, I hope they got what they deserved. I only ask for some indulgence as I learn the boundaries of whatever spell is upon you.”

“Asha’s ax worked just as well,” Margaery said, slightly peppery as she walked in. “”How has Grandfather been?”

“His normal self,” Willas said, remembering his grandfather’s pointed remarks and some hastily written letters to the maesters. It had resulted in the copy of works in his travelling bag, which would hopefully be enough to bring this matter to a happy conclusion. “Garlan and Loras are also here, as well,” he added, ticking the moments against his good leg.

“Princess, may I go and make my greetings to my brothers? I have not seen them in some time,” Margaery pleaded, eyes wide and hope clear on her face.

The Crown Princess laughed. “Go, go, Margaery, the last time you looked like that we ended up… well.” She blushed, faintly, and looked nervously at Willas.

Margaery threw her arms around Willas, then ran for the door. “Thank you, Princess Rhaenys!” she called.

The princess shook her head, a weary mirth clear. “At least some happiness is coming out of today,” she said, ruefully.

Willas found himself hoping that he could chase the shadows from her face. He suspected that her laughter was as wildly, wickedly infectious as Oberyn’s could be.

~

Willas was quite certain that he knew what had been happening. The combined efforts of the King and Oberyn had not been enough to dispel the curse, which meant that something had to be keeping it alive. Most of those who had journeyed to the capitol to try and save the ladies had perhaps looked into the works of Lomas Longstrider and perhaps some of the more appropriate books on magic, closer to collections of tales.

Willas, who was not afraid to abuse his position as the eldest grandchild of the Lord of Oldtown when his sister was in danger, had delved a little deeper. The maesters, Hightowers, and Targaryens had all had a very complicated relationship, true, but this was not the Targaryen’s doing.

So he had found a collection written by a scholar from Samar, on his travels around the Shivering Sea, crumbling at the edges and carefully locked away from prying eyes.

(There was a slight scar on his arm where he had sworn never to betray his knowledge except for the purposes that the Archmaester had agreed to.)

The best explanation for the stubborn persistence of the spell, like a fast growing weed, was some sort of physical construct tended by a trained sorcerer. Now, all Willas needed was to find the construct.

Preferably without being killed by the sorcerer.

He was at a disadvantage, though, not knowing the Red Keep that well. And Maegar the Cruel had been a secretive, paranoid man, known for his labyrinthine maze of a Keep, and there was no good map of the building.

Did he even know where to start?

Well, the princesses, he thought, dryly. Whatever this was about, the princesses were key to all of this.

Which meant that he would need to determine if there were secret passages in the princesses’ rooms, or directly beneath.

Rhaenys’ rooms, a part of his mind said, focusing on her too-knowing eyes, the soft, practiced movements of her hands, as if preparing to prepare a spell of her own, one of the discrete ones proper ladies were not supposed to know about, much less cast.

Well, he thought, leaning a bit more heavily on his cane, this was going to be a challenge.

The question was, were the maidens of the Red Keep being forced to merely keep their silence, or were they being forced to help the sorcerer?

He thought about their behavior, and decided that he would speak to Princess Rhaenys on the morrow. He would be presenting his ideas to the King and Oberyn tonight, and Loras insisted that someone needed to take the time to make Willas look at least halfway presentable.

~

He could feel something terribly wrong when he woke, with the background noise of the Keep at a high, angry pitch, something dark and twisted in it.

All he could do was dress, tying his hair back, and go look for Garlan. People liked to tell bluff, friendly Garlan things that they would not tell the limping, bookish eldest Tyrell, or the elegantly sharp Loras.

“One of Lady Helaena’s maidens could not be woken this morning,” Garlan said, face drawn. “She’s alive, but sleeping.”

Willas gave a sharp, short breath. He should have realized that would have happened eventually, that it was a miracle that no one had suffered yet… “Who was it?”

“Some Dornish lady’s youngest,” Garlan said. “Teora Tolland, I believe.”

“She’s little more than a child,” Willas said quietly. “Probably one of the youngest of the ladies here, save the younger Stark girl. We are lucky that Cousin Viky’s daughter is with Princess Daenarys on Dragonstone, I suppose.” Alysanne Bulwer was still very young, and Lady of Blackcrown besides.

“Mother have mercy,” Garlan said, rubbing his face. “I hope your plan works.”

“I need to speak with the Crown Princess- I think I can work around the bindings on her, and if not, I can speak to… someone… Garlan, I need people who might know the secret passages of the castle, especially around her rooms,” Willas took off.

Princess Rhaenys was waiting for him in her solar, wearing solid riding gear in browns and greys that would blend far better in a wood. Her hair was unbound, tumbling past her waist in a whipping mass as she paced.

She stopped as she saw him. “Do you truly know what this is?”

“Yes,” Willas said, meeting her eyes. “A demon from Mossovy. I have the records from a scholar out of Samar who spoke to a demon hunter from the region, and we need to kill the demon and whatever magical construct he is using to power this curse.”

She closed her eyes at that. “Do you know what we need? Be aware…” She stopped, looking at him with a complicated mess of emotions.

“That you cannot speak on any of the details,” he said, understanding. “Do you have Valyrian steel?”

She pulled a dagger out from under her long, robe-like coat, almost as long as her arm.

“That will do,” Willas said, blinking. “Providing you know how to… ah, that was a foolish thing to wonder.”

She laughed, something warm and low. “Between Obara and Asha, yes, it was,” she said. “Neither of them are the sort who think a maiden- especially one with an inheritance worth stealing- should be allowed to place all her defenses in the hands of others.”

He nodded, having heard Oberyn’s theories on raising girls before. “So, which passage would be least likely to be touched by a stray servant?”

She took a deep breath, steeling herself and clasping the dagger as if in a knight’s prayer. She strode over to one of the walls, to a Myrish tapestry depicting a story he couldn’t quite place- there were thorns and stars about a tower, and a river, with a small boat docked in the corner...

“An old Rhoynish tale,” she whispered. “Later, please.”

There was a loose brick, revealing a hidden door that swung open.

Willas risked a look at the princess, but her hair covered most of her face, leaving only the tip of her nose exposed.

“It would be best to do this in daylight,” he said, mildly. Loras and Garlan would curse him roundly for this, he knew- investigating the cause of the curse with a princess bound by a curse whose parameters he did not know.

Well, other circumstances aside, he was the eldest, and he did need to remind them of that sometimes.

She followed him after a long moment, holding up a candle scented faintly of rosemary, flickering shadows throughout the corridor.

Now came the difficult part, tracing the path of the spellwork and trying to find the construct.

Rhaenys took out the dagger, her face a mask. She pointed down to their left. Towards her sisters’ rooms, of course, he thought, he should have realized.

The corridor was tall and wide, something built for a man in armor to walk through, and one slender woman and a scholar could traverse the shadowy area easily enough.

“We used these corridors sometimes, before,” Rhaenys said, quietly. “Hela had nightmares when she was little, and Senya was forever getting herself in some scrape or another, and they could come to my rooms without parading themselves before the court or setting off the guards. There is another branch off that leads to the kitchens, as well, but there is at least one trap involved for the unwary.” Her grin was sharp and bright, but there was a hint of mischief in her eyes. “I have a scar on my shin from it- two hundred and seventy five years renders traps rusty and a bit useless, you see.”

“Or makes them more dangerous,” Willas points out.

Rhaenys shrugged. “There have been quiet attempts to sweep for traps and the like over the years- Daeron, the Old King, the Dragon’s Bane, Great-Grandfather, among others, but it is hard to know what is still there. All you can know if the traps you have already been told about, one way or the other. Grandfather had thought of putting some more back in, I think, but wiser heads worked together to make sure that never came to fruition.”

Willas thought about the whispers of the Mad King- well, not always whispers, depending on who did the speaking- and could see that as an all too plausible reality. ”So are there any traps in this area of the castle?”

“None that I am aware of,” Rhaenys said, tucking her hair behind her ears and looking at him meaningfully.

~

Rhae was missing.

Helaena had been told by a pale-faced Sansa, who was going to watch over Rhaenys so she could get some much needed sleep. The girl had been picking at the edges of her silvery-white sleeves, looking like a bloody ghost with her scarlet hair and pale face and clothing.

Margaery Tyrell thought her eldest brother, the one so close to Oberyn Martell, had gone with her, and Helaena was inclined to believe her.

Helaena stopped her pacing at Teora’s bedside, Roslyn Frey and Joy Hill studying her with a trace of fear.

She slid bonelessly onto a chair, trying to keep it together. Partly for shy, awkward Teora, who had tried to offer Hela hope and possibly paid for it with her life.

But mostly, selfishly, because she couldn’t imagine a world without her lordly, clever, overprotective sister there to care for her. Everyone said that Father had loved Helaena’s mother so much that he had been willing to tear the kingdoms to shreds for her, and why not, with his wife only able to give him two daughters?

But then he had been left with another daughter, and her mother had died so very shortly after the birth. So he had named her Helaena, after one of the more tragic Targaryen queens, and brought her to the Red Keep for his wife and his mother to raise.

Rhaenys was Father’s favorite, to the point he was carefully ensuring that Rhaenys would be Queen over Viserys.

Visenya was Queen Elia’s favorite, reminding her of her childhood in Dorne and her brother, a Targaryen in looks and a wild spirit.

But Hela had to be content with the love she got from her sisters and Lady Smallwood’s affection, and her earliest memory was Rhaenys curled around her, singing a lullaby to keep away the nightmares.

If Rhaenys died… Visenya would have Edmure Tully, the two had been promised since Senya was fifteen, and Lord Edmure loved Visenya’s wild heart and fierce temper and his kindness was good for her sister.

But Hela would have the looks that said it should have been her, and she couldn’t say those looks were wrong.

“She would have used the tunnels,” Joy said, eyes half closed and tapping the wood of one of the beds. “It would be the best way to avoid the guards.”

“And Lord Willas did enter her solar,” Hela confirmed. “The entrance is in there.”

“If they do not arrive soon, we shall simply have to find them,” Joy said in her quiet voice. She had a gift for the more maze-like passages of the Red Keep, and while Hela wanted to find Rhaenys now, she also knew that rushing in would possibly make it worse.

And that someone would need to be here for Senya, when everything fell apart. 

So even though she felt like she was shaking apart, Helaena trusted her sister’s judgement and kept to her rooms, watching the sleeping girl and trying not to imagine what was happening in the hidden corridors of the Red Keep.

~

The air grew sharp and thin the closer they got to the construct, something that neither of them could miss. Willas retreated farther into his heavy green half-cape, waiting for something to come out of the shadows. The silence of the princess was too unnatural, too forced to not be part of the curse.

The construct was a creation of wood and wire and silk, bending light about it to suck in the shadows in a way meant to intimidate. Willas huffed a laugh, studying the creation. It looked like a large harp, coming to the top of his head, and the wood seemed to be ironwood, though the runes engraved in it were filled with something else.

“Weirwood sap?” the Princess guessed, before clapping her hands over her mouth, something horrified over her face that didn’t fade as she did not collapse in agony or some other fate.

Willas could make another guess about the nature of the curse from her guilt, and it made it easy for him to take his gloved hands and grasp one of the silken threads, slicing it with the Valyrian steel dagger he had picked up in Oldtown.

(He had been offered Vigilance by Uncle Baelor, who had pointed out that he had been very nearly a knight before the tilting accident. He favored the long dagger and the recurve bow he could fire from his horses, and regretfully declined. Garlan, however, had borrowed it for this.)

Rhaenys took one of the other ones, snapping at a tether line and ignoring the sparks that flew from the frame.

“Careful,” he said, watching an ember land on her dress. “You don’t want to catch on fire.”

She gave him a bleak look, and he wondered what she could not tell him. “We must be done soon. There is still the demon to deal with, after all.”

He continued slicing, catching some of the drawn silver wire and pale silk, undyed but for the odd line of black running through it in long, narrow trails.

Finally they were left with the frame, and Willas pulled out the oils he had received from a friendly Summer Island trader, painting a line over all three twisted, harp-frame shapes.

“Now to light them,” he said, reaching for the candle. “Princess, we need to…” He stopped.

The demon was not especially tall, or especially imposing, in his black and silver clothing, with his ice-pale eyes and expressionless face. But there was something translucent about him when the candlelight hit his face, the silent way he moved.

What chilled Willas was how Rhaenys held her dagger, set her shoulders, something very peculiar in the set of her stance. It was not defiant, precisely, but he wished he had all of the puzzle pieces, not just the broken pieces of silk and wire and the candle now in his hands.

“I did say I would get to kill you,” the demon said, as if discussing the dress she was wearing. “Though it is terribly inconvenient that you had to ruin my work. It will take some time to redo.”

Willas held the candle to the frame, just as Rhaenys took a step forwards.

“You said you had dominion over me,” she said, as the flames licked along the trail of oil, blazing a greasy, smoky trail. “You and your master both.”

“We do,” the demon said, frowning.

“I am a Targaryen and my mother’s daughter,” she said, as if it was all the fact she needed to say. “I do not answer to anyone I do not choose to answer to. You should have remembered that, you know, as your master should have stopped himself from trying to seem so very grand. Old Valyria indeed.”

Willas was missing something indeed, but the demon leapt at the princess, and Willas snaked out using his cane, realizing Rhaenys had walked too far out for him to reach easily. It still connected with a short sword made of dark and dull metal that seemed to absorb the firelight.

But her dagger reached true, striking between the ribs and causing him to let out an inhuman scream that sounded like what Willas always imagined a dragon’s dying cry to be.

The princess let out a small sound of pain, curling her hands inwards, almost as if it was dragged out of her.

The demon seemed to fold in on itself, vanishing with the feel of winter in the air, and the tang of slightly spoiled meat.

The princess swayed, and Willas went, forgetting that he had used his cane to parry a damned sword.

Loras was going to never let him forget this, he thought, as a collapsing woman’s weight went up against his bad side and he grit his teeth in agony.

“Can you walk, my lady?” he asked, hopeful. Between the two of them, it would be slow going, but they might make it somewhere they would be found.

“They’ll find us,” Rhaenys told him, muffled a bit by her face in his clothing. “One of Hela’s ladies knows the tunnels well enough to find us in an hour, if Asha is not here in a heartbeat.”

He huffed. “I would rather try and walk back to the living areas. This seems slightly worrying.”

“The sorcerer will not be a match for uncle,” she said, exhaustion and pain clear in her voice. “And with his demon gone, he will be very weak.”

Willas still took a step on, urging her forwards, getting them to the short staircase that he remembered had the remnants of an old trap before she settled in a sudden and silent manner on the floor.

He tried to haul her up, feeling his leg tense and fray, but she stayed stubbornly asleep, weeping blood and an odd, pearly substance from her hands.

Jynessa Blackmont, freckled as a plover and of an age with the Crown Princess, was leading a group composed of a Lannister and Cousin Elinor.

“It’s dead, then?” she said, studying the princess with a faint crease between her brows.

“The demon? Yes,” Willas said, rubbing his knee. “Can you three help carry her?”

“I can do better,” Cousin Elinor said, lip sticking out and something stubborn on her face. “Two minutes, if you please.”

“She is impossible to live with, sometimes,” the Lannister girl muttered. Willas, who had his own experience and Margaery’s letters, could not argue with that. Elinor was occasionally a bit full of herself, and apparently not even a curse could quash it completely.

It was strangely relieving.

At least until Arthur Dayne and a palace guard came into the passage, staring at them. He looked at the most efficient and deadly knight in the Seven Kingdoms, the half-dead princess, and sighed.

This was not going to go well, was it?

~

When the Crown Princess woke, she insisted on dressing in a very Targaryen gown, a red inner gown Sansa had repinned and a loose black robe with red embroidered dragons and bronze edging. Her hair had been done by Hela, whose hands were always steadiest, a slender gold circlet around her head. It made her look dramatic, her bitten lips turning red even without paint, her saucer like eyes circled with dark shadows.

Margaery Tyrell was on one side when she entered the room to meet her parents and the Council, Sansa Stark on her other side, in their house colors. She gave a small, tired smile at Willas, who was leaning heavily on his cane, his damned pride still costing him more.

“I had no choice!” Rhaenys wailed, sounding terribly young and frightened. “The first word I said to betray what was happening would have been a dagger in Mother’s heart. The second, Father. The third, Senya. The fourth, Hela. All of us girls were so bound, and all I could do was try to limit his power and bind his will the best I could. At first it worked, but it was so hard, and it spilled over, and I could only try to direct it the best I could. When Teora fell ill, and Lord Willas offered me an option, I had to try and fix what had been done.”

The Tyrell boy was at her side, an arm around her too-thin shoulders. “You kept them from falling into despair,” he said, thoughtfully. “And you crossed wits with a creature who claimed to be centuries old…” He looked at the others, hazel eyes fierce. “I saw it- and I suspect the other ladies did as well. They will confirm that even if that was a lie, it was remarkably terrifying.”

“I see no reason to doubt that aspect of his story,” Oberyn said, looking terribly amused at something. Possibly at how Rhaegar was looking with irritation at Willas Tyrell. Well, the younger man seemed to be thinking, you did offer your daughter as a prize for this puzzle. “His power was strong enough my goodbrother could not break it, after all, and it took you finding the key to undo it.”

Willas nodded thoughtfully. “Princess Rhaenys was instrumental in doing so as well, and she spent the time thinking that the cost would be her death.”

The King flinched at that, his pale form stark against his black velvet. “And I, for one, am very happy that did not happen,” he said softly. “Rhaenys, you are not replaceable.”

She looked up at him, something unreadable in her face. “We still need to deal with the sorcerer- Euron Greyjoy, judging from the reports you received.”

“The ironborn ships off Skagos, and reports in Lorath,” he agreed, frowning. “I suppose you are going to press your claim,” he said, sounding profoundly unhappy.

The king’s undivided attention was… alarming, Willas decided, those mournful violet eyes sharpening and evaluating him.

“Everything can wait,” Rhaenys said, softly. “Until we all heal.”

It was hardly the end of everything- while Lady Teora had woken, there were still scars and fears, still those odd flowering thorns, and more besides.

But Willas thought if he could help his princess figure out how to kill a demon, he could help her with her duties as her father’s heir. After all, he was right- she looked quite lovely with the despair and exhaustion gone from her face.

It was the sort of face a man could easily come to love.

Even if there was a crowd of terrifying ladies who surrounded her.


End file.
